a hundred thousand souls, but none of them would ever feel like home
by cougarlips
Summary: Daryl sprawls out on the couch and Jesus curls up on top of his mattress in the corner. No goodbyes, no goodnights, just comfortable silence. / crossposted on ao3 / originally posted 08 sep 2017


Most of the time, all Daryl wanted to do was run away.

He never meant it maliciously. He didn't often want to leave and never come back – but sometimes, being surrounded by people was too much. As much as part of him wished he could enjoy the presence of others it typically left him feeling anxious and vulnerable, and he masked it with anger and harsh words.

It was different around Rick, who he'd known for so long. They could communicate entire conversations silently and read each other like open books from a mile away. Rick knew when Daryl couldn't handle others, and Daryl could stalk away without worry of someone following him. The other survivors understood this, too. They knew him. They knew his ways. They knew from experience that he needed space. Even Gabriel, Rosita, Tara, and Aaron knew it about him, though sometimes Aaron still followed at a distance to make sure Daryl didn't do anything stupid.

The patrons of Alexandria didn't know him. Daryl didn't _want_ them to know him. And because they didn't know him, they didn't understand him. Because they didn't understand him, they overwhelmed him when he made his presence known. Usually this was at Rick's request: "They have to know you're part of this, too, Daryl."

The Hilltop knew him even less, but their set-up was more familiar to Daryl. It felt more like home back in Georgia than Alexandria did, with its brick and mortar two-story homes. The Hilltop was lived in, old, dirty and it wasn't as silent as a graveyard in the middle of the night when Daryl wouldn't sleep and couldn't stay still.

He wasn't sure whose roof he sat on top of. He didn't altogether care, either. Somewhere behind him most of the community surrounded a funeral pyre, mourning the handful of fighters lost in Alexandria after pushing the Saviors back, though most of the fire died and now only embers remained.

He came back with Maggie because he owed her. He owed Glenn. He came back because the Hilltop needed trainers. He came back because Alexandria was a bloodbath in and of itself, and he couldn't walk around after dark with so many corpses littering its pavement.

But the Hilltop was only so much better, because instead of being surrounded by death and decay at Alexandria he found himself surrounded by tears of mourning and despair. Even so late into the evening and on a rooftop, he could still hear the cries and murmuring behind him.

Daryl brought a bottle of water to his lips, silently wishing he could drown himself in liquor and call it a night. Maybe that would finally silence the thoughts screaming inside his head.

The other nice thing about the Hilltop was he got the same feeling of privacy when he ran away, but he never felt alone.

He expected Jesus's arrival, hearing him before he saw his hands grip the ledge of the roof – boots scuffing the side of the trailer, trench coat buttons clinging lightly against the metal sheeting. He hauled himself up with ease, casually dangling his legs off the side of the trailer, never once laying an eye on Daryl.

Jesus never tried to make small-talk with Daryl. He never moved to sit directly next to him or any further away – Daryl sprawled his legs out in front of him and leaned back, eyes grazing the stars above him and the farm around him. Jesus sat on the edge with a comfortable slouch, his back to Daryl.

And it was just… nice. It was peaceful. It wasn't like Alexandria, where even when bodies didn't litter the pavement it was unnaturally quiet and lonely. Daryl didn't feel quite so like an outsider in the Hilltop, where nothing was new and everything was a mashed-up collection of old, junky trailers.

Daryl thought, at first, that Jesus came and sat there to check up on him. He thought Jesus wanted to make sure Daryl didn't do something so dumb as to jump to his death off any of the roofs he found himself on top of, but when Jesus never offered him more than a cursory glance when he crawled up and over, or attempted to make conversation, or did anything to distract Daryl from his sought-out peace, Daryl realized it was just something the other man did.

Sometimes, Daryl found himself staring at Jesus. At the way the moonlight bounced off his hair and illuminated the wispy strands that curled up in the humid heat of the summer. At the way Jesus would occasionally roll his head around and crane his neck, stretching it this way and that before turning his gaze back towards the gate. At the way he would meticulously rub his hands clean of dirt and blood and brain after a long day out in the open, but never making any noise. At the way he rarely wore more than canvas jeans and a tank top, the heat making any more than that unbearable.

Other times Daryl forgot Jesus even joined him in the rooftop, but it wasn't because his own mind was going so fast he didn't have the capacity to consider his guest. It was because Jesus's presence felt so natural and constant it was like he wasn't even there. It was like his being there helped Daryl unwind and calm down after busy days preparing for war and scavenging supplies.

Jesus understood Daryl in a way few others did, and the ones who did spent months – if not years – building up a foundation of trust and mutual respect. Jesus and Daryl had known each other for perhaps a month at most, but that one month felt more like ten years. Perhaps that was why they felt so comfortable around one another.

It should have bothered Daryl to know that this man understood him the way he did, but he never questioned it. Somewhere along the way, he put his trust in Jesus. Maybe it was when Jesus brought them inside his home and let them keep their weapons. Maybe it was when he saved their lives back inside the Outpost. Maybe it was when it was Jesus who found him inside the Compound and helped him escape, giving him the clothes off his back and his ration of food and water when they had half a second to breathe.

Perhaps the reason it didn't bother Daryl so much that Jesus understood him so well is because it felt as if Daryl understood Jesus: the man who never stood in one place too long, who was the first to volunteer for runs and missions, who offered to send messages back and forth between the communities and risk his life in the process. The man who didn't open up to others, who instead flitted between people and helped ease their hurt, comforting and consoling, gentle and calming but closed off, his own pain left alone and ignored.

He kept nothing to himself, either – everything in his trailer he shared or otherwise gave away: clothes, knickknacks, books, novelties, food – but it wasn't like how everyone else shared their belongings. Jesus gave his belongings away as if it were second nature, as if it was something he'd done since he'd been young.

There was also this look in his eyes Daryl caught sometimes that reminded him too much of himself. He looked too somber, too melancholy when he thought no one was looking. He made himself small, as if he wanted to make himself invisible.

On the rooftop when they're alone, though, Jesus is calm. He isn't a wholly different person, but his shoulders don't bog down with stress. His face isn't creased with worry or frustration. He holds his hands against his lap, fingers laced but relaxed.

They part as the moon passes them and begins making its way west, the sky towards the east decorated with rich purple ribbons and dotted with stars. Neither one ever moved first.

Daryl stands at the same time Jesus turns around and climbs back down the side of the building. They walk together in silence towards Jesus's trailer, entering one after the other. Daryl sprawls out on the couch and Jesus curls up on top of his mattress in the corner. No goodbyes, no goodnights, just comfortable silence.

It's the same process every night.


End file.
